


The Dragon and The Bull

by LittleMargie



Series: By Any Other Name [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fog Warriors, Forbidden Love, Inquisitor Backstory, Inquisitor is a Fog Warrior, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Canon, Rouge Inquisitor, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Seheron, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, War, but it's not graphic, facial mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMargie/pseuds/LittleMargie
Summary: Before he was The Iron Bull he was a Hissrad in Seheron, another cog in the Qunari war machine. Before she was the Inquisitor she was a scout working for the Fog Warriors, wild and reckless. When the two come together will they be able to work out their differences, or will circumstance tear them apart?Takes place six years before the events of the Inquisition, will have a sequel that picks up at the destruction of the conclave.





	1. Ataashi

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, Margie here! While I've been writing fanfiction for years on fanfiction.net (username My Little Margie), this is my first time posting on AO3, so I'm excited, but my formatting may be a little weird (Feel free to tell me if I'm doing something wrong). I always love to give my characters tons of backstory, so I wanted to write a story where Bull and the Inquisitor knew each other before the game, just to make my original story idea (which takes place during the game) a little juicier, and to give it a twist I haven't seen in other stories. I haven't really been able to find much info about Seheron, so a lot of this is made up, but feel free to shoot me a comment if I go against cannon. Also, just total honesty here, I'm in college and I work two jobs, so updates are going to be kind of random. Thanks for reading!

The river ran red with blood, a gruesome sight, straight from nightmares, but Hissrad was satisfied that most of it didn't come from his men. It had take years, but he had finally gotten a squad together without a single deadweight member.

 They were on the outskirts of the city, in the woods to the east, and they had just taken down a Fog Warrior skirmisher cell, one that was causing quite a bit of trouble for both the Qunari and the Tevinters. One of his men had been knocked out, one had some broken ribs, his archer had a sprained wrist, and everyone had the bruises and scrapes that came along with combat, but they had caught their foes by surprise, and the fight had been quick.

While his men looted the bodies and washed off in the river, Hissrad scanned the trees, searching.

He heard a bird call resounding through the foliage, but it was lonely, echoing through the forest like a cry. In his experience birds sang together, a person imitating a bird call however…

And there she was.

Up in the branches, dressed in brown and green, was a human girl, her flaming red hair blending in with the large red flowers that the local trees produced.

Their eyes locked, and as she stared at him she gave two more calls before falling silent.

She was just a few trees away, high in the foliage, but Hissrad didn't have anyone on his team who could climb fast enough to get her, and his only archer was injured. He guessed that she had been scouting for the group when his team had come upon then, and was simply warning others not to come near, which was fine with him. He couldn't see any reason to try and kill her.

Her muscles were tensed, and her breathing quick, obviously terrified at being discovered, but her face was fierce and defiant, reminding him of a cornered dragon, perched high and ready to kill.

He had never cared for redheads, but there was something beautiful about her, something wild, and so Hissrad turned away, breaking eye contact and turning back to his men.

Though he had never been good at art, he wished, just for a moment, that he could paint that little human Ataashi up in those trees, just so he would never forget her. But, as it was, he imagined she would slip his mind by nightfall, another unimportant pawn in the game for Seheron.

When he glanced back up into the trees, she was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Gatt was fucking annoying him.

The little elf boy was typically one of Hissrad’s favorites, but Gatt’s broken ribs were making him irritable, and if he heard one more complaint out of the elf’s mouth he was going to go crazy.

“I'm going for a walk,” he announced after one of Gatt’s particularly colorful swears.

“Are you sure, chief?” One of his Ashaads asked, wide brown eyes reflecting in the fire.

The young Qunari was pretty, in a childish way, and if Hissrad was a worse commander he would take him to bed, but he valued his unit more than his dick, and wouldn't mess with his ranks like that.

“I'll be fine, Ashaad,” he reassured, waving a hand and standing up.

“It's very dark,” the Ashaad protested.

“I'll tell you what,” Hissrad said, a hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth, “If I’m not back in an hour and a half you can come and look for me.”

“And if you're dead?” His archer, a former Tevinter slave, asked with a smirk.

“Then you can be in charge,” he replied with a roll of his eyes.

The night was black, but the further away from the campfire he got the more Hissrad’s eyes adjusted, and soon he was cutting through the underbrush with ease. He just wanted to sit in the dark for an hour and get rid of the headache Gatt’s complaining had pounded into his skull.

 

After about twenty minutes of walking he finally found it, a cave that he had seen earlier in the day, after their skirmish. The perfect place to lay down and rest.

He made sure that his footfalls made noise as he approached the cave, so as to scare off any animals that may be nesting there, but as he entered his newfound hideaway he discovered that the cave was indeed occupied, though not by animals, by a girl.

It was the same girl from before, with the same red hair and fierce expression, and the same terror at being found.

She had a small fire going in the back of the cave, and in the light he could see her blue eyes and the smattering of freckles across her face. She looked younger up close, probably a little older than half his thirty years, and Hissrad found the corner of his mouth turning up into a smile.

He planned to tell her to run along home before her mother worried, but before he could even open his mouth he was knocked onto his back.

She had flung herself at his bad shoulder, jumping in the air and bringing her elbows down onto his brace, knocking him down. Then, flipping back, she unsheathed two wicked daggers, and he wasted no time getting onto his feet, hefting his great axe into his hands.

A second passed where they both looked each other up and down, sizing each other up, and then, she pounced.

Hissrad kept himself on the defensive, half because she was young and he was unwilling to hurt her, and half because she was damn _good,_ daggers and hair flying with a quick and wild grace.

He was a hurricane, harsh and strong, but she was water, fluid and fleet, filling in the gaps he left and rushing away when his axe came to meet her.

With every movement and strike she kicked or jabbed at his left ankle, desperate to fell him. Step, step, jab. Slash, dodge, kick.

He knocked her flat on her back twice, but both times she rose fluidly, bruised and bleeding, but still standing on her feet.

She had a nasty gash on her leg from not sidestepping him quickly enough, but though she was bleeding she didn't slow down, so his steps became more earnest, his swings more desperate.

He could feel his ankle weakening, already swollen and intensely painful, and he knew it would soon break, putting him entirely at her mercy.

He did not think she would be merciful.

 

Stepping on a pebble should not have brought the end to such a fierce fight, but it did; when Hissrad winced at the feel of the small rock under his weakened ankle, the girl pounced. Launching herself up from the cave floor, she once again brought her elbows against his braced shoulder, which was already weak from two hard fights in one day, forcing him to drop his great axe. 

As it clattered on the floor the girl landed, flipping her daggers to bring both hilts down _hard_ onto the ankle she had weakened, shattering his already fractured bones.

Falling to the floor, Hissrad dropped to his knees, unable to support himself any longer, and in a last effort to come out of this fight alive he took hold of one of her hands, which was still holding the hilt of one of her daggers, and drove the knife into her stomach.

She gasped and staggered backward, dropping the other dagger just out of Hissrad's reach and clutching her wound.

“Well fucking played, Qunari,” she said, a laugh startling out of her.

Her voice was deeper than he expected, smooth and rich like chocolate, even in her pain.

“You were gonna kill me,” he responded with a grunt, slumping to his haunches and holding his swollen ankle.

She barked another laugh, sliding to the floor when her back hit the cave wall.

“As if you didn't follow me here to kill _me._ ”

“I didn't follow you here,” he denied, “When I saw you in here I was going to let you go.”

She scoffed in disbelief and then groaned in pain, pressing her hands tighter to her stomach.

He should have crawled toward the mouth of the cave, shouted to his men for help, should probably even try to finish the girl off, but even though he had been the one to drive the knife into her belly, he didn't really want her to die. He didn't really have any sort of plan, but he knew he couldn't leave her.

“The Qunari are here to help Seheron,” he told the girl instead, “If the Fog Warriors would understand that, would help us fight the Tevinters and the Tal Vashoth-”

“You are invaders, same as them,” she interrupted, “You have killed us, same as them. The war is over, what then? You force us to the Qun, same as you. You will not leave us, so we will fight you. You kill us, so we kill you. Do not deny you killed my brothers today, I watched you wash our blood off of your axe.”

“There were orders,” he defended, wonder why he was even bothering, “That cell had been killing our warriors while they slept in their beds, slaughtered like dogs.”

“Slaughter?” She cried, her voice becoming more heavily accented in her grief, “It is _you_ who slaughter.”

“We don't kill men who can't fight back!” He argued.

“Do you not?” She asked, eyes wild, “Was it not the Qunari who ransacked Harintha? Who tore my babe from my breast? Who _butchered my son_ as I begged for their mercy? Who left me there with nothing but his ribboned flesh to clutch as the tents burnt around me? I was not a rebel until you _made_ me one, Qunari.”

Hissrad averted his eyes from her burning gaze, unable to stand her pain.

“I've heard about Harintha,” he told her, “but it was a rebel camp. There should not have been children there.”

“There were,” she spat, “Mine and others. The Fog Warriors gave me a home when no one else would, when my own parents threw me to the streets. They gave me a place to raise my son. Me and others like me.”

“Like you?” Hissrad asked, looking back into her furious gaze.

“I was raped,” she said, every weary word hitting Hissrad like a fist, “by a Vint. The baby was dark, like his father, everything like his father, looked _just like_ his fucking father. My parents threw me to the streets, where was I to go? To the Tevinters who would sell me as a slave? The Qunari who would take my son from me? The Tal Vashoth, broken and driven mad by war? The Fog Warriors took me in when I could go nowhere else. Gave my son a home, told me I did not have to fight.”

Hissrad stared at her, the searing pain in his ankle overshadowed by the roiling in his gut, and studied her face. She seemed so young, wide-eyed and pale, and he could hardly picture her with a child.

“How old are you?” He asked, fearing the answer.

“Seventeen,” she replied, “I was thirteen when I was raped, fourteen when I had my child. He died right after his second summer.”

Though Hissrad had never been one to weep, he felt like crying as he looked upon her, lying there with her own knife in her stomach, skin pale against the cave stone and her own dark red blood spilling over her freckled fingers.

“I'm sorry,” he told her, and though he spoke quietly it sounded loud in the cave, an apology from an absent god.

“Were you there?” She asked after a silent moment.

“No,” he admitted, “but I am sorry all the same.”

She laughed, wild and loud. Laughed and laughed, her head thrown back and blood oozing lazily from her wound as Hissrad stared at her with both awe and bewilderment.

“Do you know?” She asked, when her laughter had faded to an echo, “That felt like a baptism. You may have killed me, Qunari, but I feel clean.”

 

His heart burst.

Nothing had changed, yet everything did.

He had been nothing but a soldier. He killed, he fought, he gave orders. He was a cog in the machine, well-oiled and disposable, but suddenly… He was something more, something distinct; her killer, her savior, hers.

He had never so much as wished it before, but he was suddenly filled with a burning desire to have a name, something she could call him that would be his and his alone.

Getting on his hands and knees, he started to crawl.

“Qunari?” The girl asked, cautious and questioning.

“My hands are larger,” he told her, “I can slow the blood.”

She laid back and nodded, either too faint or too trusting to argue.

“Are you cold?” He asked when he reached her, his voice softer now that he was near her.

Freckles danced across her skin like constellations, steady and true, a bit of stardust for one bound to dirt.

She nodded so he turned, sitting with his back against the cave wall, and carefully dragged her toward him.

Slowly, he lifted her hands away and replaced them with his. He expected her to fight him, but she simply laid back against his chest, her bright red hair fanning across his scarred grey skin.

She was cold, but he felt as though he were engulfed by fire.

“Give me a name, Qunari,” she requested softly, laying her hands over his.

“A name?” He repeated, confused.

“In Seheron you receive two names in your life, as is our tradition,” she explained, “One when you are born, and one at the moment your life changes forever. Most get their new names when they marry or have a child, some get theirs after a battle, some never get another. But when you feel your life has changed, you change for the world to know. You have changed my life today, Qunari, if you are willing, I want you to change my name.”

“Qunari do not have names,” he told her, even as ‘Ataashi’ sprung to his lips.

He had more freedom than most, as a Hissrad, as a commander, but a name… He was not sure that he could give a name to her, even though she had asked.

“You have titles, do you not? Instead of names?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I am called Hissrad.”

“Liar,” she translated, “You are called liar.”

“Well,” he blistered, “I think a more accurate translation is ‘keeper of secrets.’”

“I will not call you a liar, Qunari,” she told him, and though her voice was soft there was a firmness underneath, “Not when you have been so kind.”

No one had ever called him kind before, not since his Tama had caught him lying to cover for one of his friends when he was a child.

“You are kind, but you are stupid,” his Tama had said.

Neither could describe him now, or perhaps both could, him sitting on the ground with his enemy placed between his legs.

He was proud of his station, to be a good Hissrad was to be good at everything, but for some reason he was thankful that she would not call him by his title.

“Do you wish you had a name?” She wondered.

“Do not ask me that question,” he begged, tightening his hands.

She did not respond, instead cocking her head.

“Did you hear that?”

He listened; bird calls.

The girl called back, her voice remarkably similar to the blue parrots native to the forest.

Soon the calls came closer, and Hissrad prepared to have his throat slit. He didn't imagine her friends would take kindly to the man who had stabbed her.

Would she tell them the truth, he wondered? Would she defend him? Or would she stand there as her brothers put him down like a beast?

 

Soon an elf and a man appeared at the mouth of the cave, both dressed in the white armor of the Fog Warriors, and two arrows were suddenly pointed toward him.

“Let her go, Qunari,” the elf snarled, his brown eyes wild.

“I'm injured, Staltar,” the girl said, lifting Hissrad's hands to show the wound, “the Qunari is keeping me alive.”

So she would defend him then. He felt a rush of gratitude and squeezed her lightly, trying not to smile when her small hands squeezed his fingers in return.

“Fasta vass,” the elf sweared, the blood draining from his face.

He shot a look to the man, slowly lowering his bow, but when the man shook his head he brought it back up.

“What happened?” The man demanded, his voice hard and strong, “Why are you here?”

“Tevinters, Veridis, ” the girl answered, and again Hissrad felt a sense of relief, “Three of them. I got away, but they managed to turn my knife on me. The Qunari was already here.”

“Our brothers were slaughtered upstream,” the man, Veridis, spat, glaring at Hissrad, “The river runs red with our blood.”

There was nothing to it. If he lied they would surely not believe him, and potentially cast suspicion on the girl too, so he told the truth.

“I killed them,” Hissrad confessed, “Me and my men. They fought strong, broke my ankle. My men went for help.”

“You admit it?” The elf asked him, shocked.

“The cow admits to killing us while he holds one of our own between his legs,” Veridis said, disgust and hatred clear on his face.

“This _cow_ is keeping me from bleeding to death while you stand about posturing and pointing arrows in my face!” The redhead exclaimed, anger boiling in her voice.

The elf, Staltar, immediately lowered his bow, embarrassment clear on his face, but when he made to go forward, the man blocked his progress.

“Why have you not killed her?” He demanded, and wasn't that just the question Hissrad was asking himself?

“I had orders to kill those men,” he said, because if he was on an honesty kick, he might as well continue it, “But I did not have orders to kill her.”

Hissrad expected them to argue, to disbelieve him simply because of the horns on his head, but they were soldiers too, and they understood the fatigue of war, so they lowered their bows.

They moved toward Hissrad, taking the girl out of his arms and holding her between them.

“We cannot take you with us, Qunari,” the girl said apologetically as she was lifted away.

Without the warmth of her skin or the rush of her blood he felt cold and empty, but he was glad that she was getting help.

“I understand,” he told her, and he did; were their situations reversed the Qunari would likely have killed her, he was lucky to be alive.

“I hope your kin find you before the Vints do,”; she bid as a parting farewell, and in her voice there was an undeniable tenderness that even her comrades seemed to notice.

“Ataashi,” he said before she could leave, the word bursting through his lips.

“What?” She asked, head turning, her hair falling across her cheek like a waterfall.

“Ataashi,” he repeated, “Your name.”

Her two companions’ faces whitened in shock, obviously understanding the significance of what the naming meant, but the girl’s smile was blinding.

“Dragon,” she translated, voice deep and melodic, “You bless me, Qunari.”

And with that, her companions dragged her away, into the night, leaving Hissrad alone with a shattered ankle, a tattered heart, and the dangerous knowledge that somewhere out there, was a girl that he had named.


	2. Bread and Honey

It was an hour before his men found him.

He called out code words into the night and eventually the Ashaad poked his head around the corner, his wide, concerned cow-eyes no longer stirring lust in Hissrad's belly. He would dream of other eyes tonight. 

It took two of his men to haul him, limping, back to camp, and another to send a raven requesting a Sarabaas for his ankle. They ribbed him good-naturedly, but Hissrad’s heart swelled a little at the clear relief in their eyes, even as he avoided their questions. 

The next time he saw her was three months later.

There was a food shortage in the city proper, with the Tevinters hitting harder than usual and the Tal Vashoth targeting the food shipments. Hissrad and his team had been eating nothing but hard tack and chewy, pungent native fruits, and it hadn’t been doing much for moral. 

The two elves in his team, Gatt, and the archer, Hafan, had been doing fine, but the Qunari were big men, and were getting testy with hunger.

They were staying in the city for a while, healing from their latest fight, and Hissrad was antsy, both from his stagnation and his ankle. The little Ataashi had really done a number on him.

His men had splinted his ankle, but rules dictated they couldn't use one of their potions on something that wasn't life threatening, so Hissrad had to wait two days for the Sarabaas to trek out there with her handler.

The Sarabaas had healed it, but, because of Ataashi’s ferocity, and because it had already started to heal wrong, his ankle had been permanently damaged. 

He could still do his duty, the Qunari would not keep him as a Hissrad if he could not, but he would probably always have to wear a brace. Pain spurred him to fight harder anyway, and in a twisted way he was glad he had something to remember her by.

He was too hungry and too bored to sleep, so he was already on high alert when she crept through his window at midnight. 

He had heard her on the windowsill and thought her an assassin, so when she entered through the window he was ready, slamming her against the wall, knocking the breath out of her and making her gasp.

“Who are you?” He growled at the cloaked figure.

“Have you forgotten me so quickly, Qunari?” She asked, sly and breathless.

“Ataashi,” he realized, releasing her.

“The name is good in your mouth,” she said with a smile, her voice like caramel, accent heavy.

“Why are you here?” He asked, his heart beating loud.

“Are you not glad to see me?” She answered coyly. 

He reached down to take her cape off, the fabric falling to the floor and her hair falling wild, free.

He could not see the color in the dark.

Standing chest to chest she stood taller than he imagined, and he thought of her long legs between his in the cave, freckled and pale.

He moved to light a candle.

“It is good to see you move,” she told him, her eyes raking down his body, “Though I am sorry for the brace.”

“I should have known better than to fight a dragon in her lair,” he said with a smirk, before his eyes rested on her stomach.

“You are healed?” He asked.

She nodded, lifting her tunic to reveal her scar.

Looking in her eyes, he slowly extended his hand, questioning. She nodded and he ran his fingers along her skin, calluses sliding along scar tissue.

“They cauterized it?” He asked, smoothing the palm of his hand over the wound.

She nodded and dropped her shirt, forcing him to pull away.

“With the same dagger they pulled from me,” she said with a huff of laughter, “It felt fitting, the birth of a dragon.”

“Ataashi,” he breathed, the word reverent in his mouth, “Do your people accept it?” 

“They do,” she confirmed, and a weight he did not know he held was lifted off his chest.

“They do not like that a Qunari gave it to me,” she continued, “but names are sacred things.”

“Why are you here?” He asked again, unwilling to talk of names when he did not have one.

She did not answer right away, slinging her bag off her shoulder and opening it. The smell of fresh bread wafted out, and Hissrad almost drooled.

“I heard the Qunari had no food. I could not suffer to let hunger kill you when I could not.”

“We will not starve to death,” he said with a chuckle, though he was touched that she thought of him regardless. 

“If you do not want it…” She teased, going to close the bag.

Though she was only joking he quickly moved to stop her, eyes hungry like a wild dog.

She laughed softly at his eagerness, her hands clasped tight in his, and said, “I brought honey too.”

Hissrad dropped her hands quickly, and she grinned at his boyish behavior.

“How did you know where I was?” he asked as she pulled two loaves out of her bag, setting them on the small table by his bed.

“I saw you,” she confessed, opening up the jar of honey, “walking through the town square with a Qunari elf. I was curious, I followed you.”

“A dangerous curiosity,” he replied, “I might not have been so kind a second time.”

She shook her head, brows furrowed as though he was being ridiculous. 

“You know as well as I do we cannot hurt each other. We have been entwined.”

“And what does that entail?” he asked, caution creeping into his voice, “We are on opposite sides of a war.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded, “but like the edge of the sea and the edge of the sky… we meet.”

The words hung between them for a moment, then she turned, grabbing a loaf and tearing off a fourth before handing the larger piece to him. 

“It’s not poisoned,” she promised when she saw his hesitation, taking a bite of her bread to prove it, “I meant what I said.”

“Then you’re the only person on this fucking island that keeps their word.”

Ataashi smiled.

“Not even that. But with you I will try.”

The words left him feeling strangely emotional, a blot of something almost painful spreading through his chest like ink. Never before had anyone made a promise to him even resembling that which so effortlessly fell from her lips. A soldier would always be lied to, if it was for the good of the Qun. He could not make her the same promise, but desperately, he wanted to. 

“Thank you for the bread,” he said instead, steering into safer waters, “All I've been eating are those horrible yellow fruits.”

“Migmam?”

Hissrad shrugged.

“I don’t know, they’re long, warty, look like a horse’s dick.”

“Yes, migmam,” she confirmed with an ernest nod of her head, “Those are good! I ate many as a child.”

Hissrad made a face.

“They smell like my men after fighting in the sun. Fucking disgusting.”

She cocked her head to the side, clearly confused, then smiled with the delight that’s only obtainable by watching someone do something very stupid.

“You big cow! You’re eating them raw!”

Hissrad bit his lip, wanting to be mad at her but unable to stop his mesmerisation at the joy on her face.

“I take it you’re not supposed to.”

“Not unless you like eating dirty ass,” she taunted, “You’re supposed to cook them. Take the flesh out and mash it in a pot. Add cinnamon and nutmeg, maybe milk if you can find it. Mothers’ use it for their babies, I used it for-” She cut off, her smile fading from her face like a sunset from the sky.

Grief shone plainly in her eyes, and Hissrad, for once a coward, turned his gaze to his lap.

“Why did you let me go?” she asked suddenly, turning her piece of bread slowly between her fingers.

He looked up.

“Is that why you came tonight?”

He had been half ready for her to ask, but was hoping she wouldn’t. He couldn’t answer what he didn’t know.

“Perhaps,” she replied, voice a little softer than it normally was, like butter melting in the heat, “You will not leave my mind, Qunari. If you were dead I would think myself haunted, but as it is I think you a mage, holding yourself, spellbound, in my dreams.”

A huff left Hissrad’s lungs, too incredulous to form laughter.

“If I were a mage my ankle wouldn’t be so fucked.”

She laughed, loud and surprised, before coming to a sudden halt, as though her laughter had been stolen by the wind. As one, they both turned to the window, still open to combat the stifling Seheron heat. 

“You should leave,” Hissrad told her in an undertone, reminded all too suddenly about what could happen to both of them if she was found there. 

“I think you are right,” she agreed, giving him a sad smile before picking up her cloak and bag, “It was good to see you, Qunari. Eat your bread, mash your migmam.”

“Will I see you again?” he asked as she fastened her cloak around her shoulders.

“I think so,” she said with a conspiratorial wink, “I’m a good tracker. I will find you.”

The thought probably should have unnerved Hissrad a lot more than it did, but instead it was a comfort; a promise that he could map the constellations on her face once more.

“You were beautiful,” he confessed, the words pulled from him like a bucket from a well, falling out of his mouth like water.

She blinked.

“What?”

“I can’t go a damn day on this island without seeing something horrible, doing something horrible. I let you go because you were beautiful, and I wanted to know that there was something beautiful in this fucked-up place.”

It wasn’t the full answer, perhaps he would never know why he had done all the things he had done that day, but it was true. She had promised to speak truth to him, so he would try to do the same for her. 

“I am not beautiful,” she protested, surprise twisting up her face, “I am too tall, my hair is red, I have too many freckles. No men try to court me. I am too muscular to be a pretty girl.”

“I didn’t say you were a pretty girl,” he told her, displeased by her comments, “I said that you were beautiful.”

Confusion still colored her features, but she smiled, reaching her hand up to cup his face.

The warmth of her skin seeped across his cheek, and he felt spellbound, trapped in a way he never had been before.

“I think you are beautiful too,” she told him.

Then, pulling her hood up, she smiled and disappeared out the window and into the night. She had taken Hissrad’s breath away, and in return, left two loaves of bread, and a jar of honey.

He sat, heavy, on the foot of his bed, slumped and silent, wondering how the hell this had happened. Six years he had been in Seheron, almost seven, and he had always been a model soldier. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he got shit done, and kept his men alive to boot. Sure, his superiors didn’t always agree with the way he did things, sure, he played it a little more fast and loose than the other Hissrads, but there was a reason he had been here five years longer than most men, a reason he had not succumbed to asala-taar. He had never gotten close with the people that he may have to someday kill, and yet here he was, trying to get closer.

What the fuck was wrong with him.

He sighed, this would have been so much easier if she hadn’t come back, if she could have just disappeared into the forest. He wouldn’t have forgotten her, he didn’t think he ever could, but at least then she could have rested in the back of his mind, hazy, like a dream half-forgotten.

Well, he wasn’t going to feel any better by being hungry. 

The bread was plain, but it was good. Coupled with the honey and his poor diet, he felt almost like a king at a feast. He would have to get rid of the jar as soon as possible, so that he wasn’t accused of stealing rations, but for now, with the faintest scent of Ataashi still lingering in the air, life was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes it's been a long time since I updated. At least I haven't given up! 
> 
> Notes:  
> 1.Hafan, the archer's nickname, is not in the official qunlat language, and I haven't decided what it means yet lol  
> 2.Cauterization is the practice of burning a wound to close it. In this case they pulled the dagger from Ataashi, heated it over a fire, and then burned her with it to stop her bleeding. Potions are everywhere in the DA games, but I like to think that the common soldier doesn't really have a lot of access to them, otherwise, like, no one would die.  
> 3.Ataashi calls Gatt a "qunari elf," but the real term for him would be Viddathari, a convert to the Qun.   
> 4.Migmam is made up. Again, we have like, no info on Seheron.
> 
> I've actually written a lot for this story, but most of it is for the sequel bc I'm incapable of waiting for the good parts. This chapter turned out a lot better than I thought it would though, considering I'm not that great at writing filler. Reviews are always appreciated! Also, I made up like 90% of Seheron lore bc we don't really have any, but let me know if I've contradicted cannon. Thank you so much for reading! The Iron Bull needs more love.


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